Lost Causes
by springfieldbluebird
Summary: Watson and Holmes have a conversation about London and realize they have more in common than they thought.


Standard disclaimer: These characters are based on characters on the TV show Elementary. I cannot claim any ownership of these characters, nor am I ever making any money on this. Please do not sue me. (Teehee)

She opened her eyes in the dark and realized that she saw light seeping in from underneath her door. It had been dark when Watson had lain down, exhausted from their last case. Still, sleep had been long in coming. It had been horrible; two young women, college students, had been found murdered, dumped in two different parts of the city. They'd been found strangled, a telephone cord knotted around their throats, tangled in the long dark hair.

She was still stunned at the speed at which Holmes had solved the murder. Gregson had struggled to keep up, but trusting the singular intellect of his friend, he had followed Holmes' every suggestion until the killer was unmasked and taken into custody.

They had both been silent on the way home, satisfied by their work, yet still unnerved and keyed up. She stood up, tugging on a robe over her pajamas and opened the door to her room as quietly as possible, wanting to check on her charge. While he usually showed a confident aloofness, she knew that there was so much more beneath the surface of assurance.

He was standing at the window, looking out much as she'd found him that first day when he'd been staring at the televisions. He was dressed in only pajama bottoms, and bare feet, despite the chill. She watched him for a moment, studying the varied tattoos on his bare skin. There was something compelling about them, something she couldn't put her finger on—such an outward expression of his inward pain, perhaps.

"Can't sleep either, Watson?" Holmes said softly, without turning around.

"No." She replied, still watching him. His hair was ruffled, but whether from sleeping or running his hand through it, she couldn't tell. Somehow it was one of the many charming things about him. "Coffee?"

He nodded and turned toward her, his eyes shadowed with dark thoughts. He padded behind her toward the kitchen, perching on a chair turned backwards.

When she turned back to him, he had dropped his head down on his forearms. "You're working too hard." She said as she settled into the chair beside him, waiting on the brew to get ready. "You've been through a lot. Maybe you should work a little more slowly." Ever since their first case, the worries had nagged the back of her mind.

"No." He shook his head, resting his chin on his forearms. "They…" he gestured towards the window, out in the darkness, "they don't wait, Watson. Evil doesn't take a holiday, I'm afraid."

"But sometimes we need to, take a holiday, you know." She replied, getting up to check the coffee. She came back with two cups, setting his beside him.

He watched her thoughtfully, again noticing how one moment she was the objective physician, the next moment switching to the caring concern of a friend. It was strange, and Sherlock didn't know exactly how to accept it. He hadn't had much practice accepting friendship, it was not something he had needed before, but now…he felt different, didn't he? Being near her was something he'd begun to crave, like the chemical demons that had had him in their claws.

They sat silent for a while, then she voiced the question had been nagging her all day. "How can you face so much evil?" She eyed him with her dark gaze. "I mean, what makes you decide to face this?" She gestured to the wall of murder victims, the files and assorted pieces of paper containing his cramped handwriting. When Holmes wasn't working on a case, he was constantly at work; reading police manuals, studying tool marks, picking the endless supply of locks that hung on the wall, and reviewing case files of other unsolved crimes dug up on the internet. She thought she knew how he would reply, but he always seemed to surprise her.

He shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee. "Someone has to do it. I'm just the best equipped for the job." There was a touch of what some would call arrogance in his voice, but she knew he also saw it as simply the truth.

And, as usual, he flipped the tables on her. "What about you, Watson?" He asked, his mouth turning down in one of those frownish-looking smiles that had become very dear to her in the two weeks they'd been together. "Some would ask how were you able to be a surgeon. Facing death on a daily basis….with the stakes so high." He met her eyes and his expression let her know that he wasn't trying to offend her about such a sensitive subject, he just spoke what he thought. As always, she thought with a wry smile.

"You! Trying to get on to the topic of me instead of you. Fine. I'll tell you something and you tell me something." She took a breath as she prepared to open up. This truly was going to be a two way street, and if she wanted him to give something, she had to give something herself. "Being a surgeon, it's hard…I mean it was hard." She sighed heavily. "When I . . . when I lost my patient. . . it was like losing my strength somehow. I . . . I wasn't able to go back to the OR."

"Yet." Sherlock whispered, throwing up a finger to emphasize his point. "Yet. There's still time to return. You're not a lost cause, Joan Watson."

She inwardly winced at her painful barb of last week. She had known she hit the mark when she told him he couldn't look at himself in a mirror because he was a lost cause. "I was wrong about you, you know. I'm sorry." Reaching out a hand, she grasped his for a moment. His hand was very warm against her palm. "You're not a lost cause either."

"Think so?" Again, the half-smile that was a frown as well. He glanced down at his feet, seemingly unable to take her comment. "Well, then." He shifted uncomfortably, not knowing exactly what to say.

She sat back to give him room. "Tell me something, Sherlock." She used his first name gently, as she almost never did. "What happened in London?" She stared down into her mug, after taking another sip, so that he would not feel pressured. The more she got to know him, the more familiar she became with their dance. She would press, he would press back, she would back off and then he would come out with something about himself, like a little gift he didn't even know he'd given her.

A long pause ensued. The detective was so still, she felt he must have put himself in another trance. Then she heard his voice. Not nearly so brisk and sure of himself. "I failed, Watson. Unable to solve the case. There was a man... a man who got away. I couldn't find the proof. Like with **our** first case…" His words were broken, but she understood.

"You lost control." She said simply, remembering how he, enraged, had smashed her car on their first case.

He nodded. "It. . .it consumed me. I went to drugs because I couldn't stop obsessing over the case." He pressed his fingertips against his forehead for a moment, then looked up with everything in his eyes. "The only time I could know peace was when I was high." His voice took on a bitter tone. "But that life. . . it wasn't peace, now was it?"

She nodded in agreement. "Failure is painful. One of the most painful things we ever face."

They sat silently for a long time, absorbing the quiet of the night. Finally, she carried her cup into the kitchen, then walked back to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you." She said softly. "Thank you for opening up. It's an important step."

"I haven't told you everything." He whispered. "I'll need more time."

She nodded. "You ok?"

He nodded. "Of course, Watson. You need your sleep." He seemed to recapture some of his usual equilibrium, but she still felt that something had changed between them. There was a commonality—a feeling of kindred spirits. If someone had asked her if she thought she would ever feel a connection with this man two weeks ago…even a week ago, she would have said no. But now…their relationship was a living thing that evolved daily, and something she'd come to depend on. Holmes continued, "Go to bed. Maybe you'll get a lullaby from me. If you're lucky."

"Sounds heavenly." She stretched and made her way toward the bedroom, leaving the door cracked. As she was drowsing off, the sounds of Holmes' violin caressed the night.


End file.
